


To Circumvent Confinement

by meaninglessblah



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Based on Earth, Gratuitous world-building, Law Enforcement, M/M, Modern
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-03-06 11:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13410396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Alban needs an out. He needs more than a change of scenery; he needs an escape. Whatever will take him away from the perils of gang life under the intelligent hand of his long-term lover, and beyond the exploitation of Neath's finest officers.And he'll manipulate anyone around him to get what he wants.





	1. Negotiation

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece built around talizorah's oc Cirella Ryder, which you can find here: http://talizorahs.tumblr.com/tagged/cirella

_M_ AHALA Rees trained her crimson-painted fingernails around the stem of the wineglass, watching the light refract through the artificial diamond. It’s contents was a 1959 chardonnay, from a bottle that would have cost two months of paychecks from the staff combined. It was the restaurant’s second most expensive bottle.

The waiter, a young unimportant man in a crisp waistcoat, offered her another round of refreshments and she politely declined. Behind him, a tall figure loped through reception, casting his gaze around languidly until it alighted on her.

Mahala dismissed the water, settling back as the tall man took the seat opposite her. She gestured to the wineglass in front of him as she raised her own to her lips. “No bodyguard?”

The man didn’t blink at her offer, or her inquiry. His gaze was on the sparsely occupied restaurant, searching for familiar faces. “Pup’s outside; didn’t think she would be interested in this conversation.”

A smile quirked Mahala’s perfect lips, and she cleared her throat subtly, casting her gaze down to her lap. “And no Alban?”

The man’s eyes met hers then, assessing her. Mahala didn’t flinch under the investigation. “Not today,” he responded succinctly, and she took that as a warning.

She chuckled, lifting her serviette and placing it delicately across her lap. “I would have thought you two inseparable.”

Iye Enyeto was a not a man who gave warnings twice; Mahala Rees was not a woman who backed down easily. Unstoppable force, immovable object. Iye took a sip of wine. “Do you want a fucking 300-page report on my team, or did I come here to discuss business?”

Mahala smiled slowly, the motion sultry and inherently dangerous. “Oh Iye, you always know just what to say to make a girl happy.”


	2. Altercation

_A_ LBAN was running. Not the sort of heavy-chested sprint of one who’s being run down by a lorry, but the heavy-chested walk of one who hasn’t glanced over their shoulder in the last thirty seconds and it’s becoming difficult to focus. Felt like being run down by a lorry, just at an incremental pace.

His pulse sounded arrhythmic in his ears, and his feet stumbled across the sidewalk pavement. He hoisted his backpack higher on his shoulder, and ran trembling, excited fingers through his ginger hair.

Not for the first time, he cursed his bright red locks, scowled at the attention they drew. He’d considered cutting them off, maybe even shaving them back, when he’d decided to leave. But if Iye found him again, such a sin wouldn’t be forgiven lightly. Iye loved his hair, and Alban had to allow for the possibility that he wouldn’t succeed. He might be given a few days leniency, but then the dogs would come down on him - no one strayed too far from Iye’s side. Contingencies were necessary. So he had to make the most of those few days.

Alban chewed his lip and glared at the paper map. His phone was nestled comfortably in his back pocket; he didn’t trust that it was secure. If Iye could review his browsing history remotely, Alban wouldn’t get far.

Neath was small, but not that small. Small enough that it was a feat to duck a black market gang for more than a few days. If a member didn’t recognise you, an affiliate of a fellow gang surely would. Neath was crawling with gangs, and unfortunately, Alban was a very familiar face.

He had to get out of the city, somewhere not too far, where he could settle down and plan some off-world transport. He didn’t care where - he’d stowaway if he had to. He just needed to get far enough away that he could shake Iye.

Alban paused, musing over what he would do if he did manage to get onboard an off-planet ship. Where would he go? What would he do? Maybe settle down on a station, buy himself a small apartment? He wondered how much apartments cost on the stations; maybe a compartment was more in his price range. Maybe he’d get a job as a porter, maybe he’d dye his hair and change his name.

 _Maybe you’ll actually make it out this time_ , the tiny voice sneered in the back of his mind.

Alban swallowed thickly and started forwards again, stuffing the map haphazardly into his coat pocket. Out of Neath, that was where he was headed. The rest would come later.

He stepped off the sidewalk, glancing left as he walked onto the road.

“Hey!” a voice yelled, drawing Alban to a surprised halt as he turned to find its owner. A man was walking towards him across the road, a scowl painted across his features, but Alban didn’t recognise him.

 _What are you doing?_ the voice asked, and he mentally shook himself. _Why did you stop?_

It was right; he had no reason to stop for this stranger, however irritated they seemed to be. Maybe they were mistaken. Alban ducked his head and made to pass the man, but his hand snapped out and yanked him back to the sidewalk by his upper arm. The redhead gave a shout of surprise, staggering over the curb.

“Are you deaf?” the man demanded as Alban spun to face him, wrenching his arm back. “You could’ve been hit by a car. Jaywalking is a chargeable penalty.” His hand went to his belt, fumbling with a notepad as Alban stared on. “What’s your name?”

Alban gave him a curt laugh. “Yeah, that’s not happening,” he responded, and turned to step back into the traffic-ridden street.

The man’s firm grip latched onto his arm again, and Alban glared, irritation bubbling in his stomach. “Your name,” he responded forcefully, and flashed the silver brooch in his face again. _South Wales Police_ was scrawled on one side of the red insignia, _Heddlu De Cymru_ it’s mirror.

Regret settled like a cold lake in the pit of Alban’s stomach as he met the olive-toned man’s gaze. Of all the days to get ticketed by a cop for _jaywalking_. His nails bit into the strap of his backpack as he shuffled his weight to the other foot, eager to be moving. “Ewan,” he responded offhandedly, but the constable didn’t buy it.

“McGregor?” he inquired, his tone deadpan and unflinching. “Want to tell me your real name, sir? If you try walking off again,” he warned sharply as Alban took another step towards the road, “I’ll put you under arrest.”

Alban smiled slowly, raising two fingers to his forehead. “Whatever you say, captain,” he sneered, “I’ll see you around.”

The man’s gaze flashed with fury, and then the hand on Alban’s arm was spinning him around and shoving him down onto the hood of a nearby car. Alban gave a shout of surprise as the officer leveraged his arm up between his shoulder blades, leaning down to his ear.

“That’s Constable Ryder to you,” he muttered, and Alban took the opportunity to slam his elbow back into the officer’s temple. He wasn’t wearing any headgear, and he went reeling backwards with a sharp cry of pain.

Alban didn’t get far. All too soon, he was facedown on the hood of the car, swearing under his breath. The constable yanked the backpack to the ground and pulled his wrists into the small of his back as Alban glared.

“And that’s assaulting an officer,” Ryder said, his tone slightly incredulous. Alban stiffened as cold metal caressed his wrist, latching over pale skin as the constable pressed his limbs into the handcuffs.

“No, no,” Alban began to babble, shifting to save his other wrist from the same fate. Ryder’s grip was stronger than he expected. “Please, it was a mistake.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” Ryder muttered, one hand fisted around the short chain binding Alban’s wrists as he bent to place the backpack on the hood next to Alban’s shoulder.

Alban was suddenly filled with urgency. “I’m sure I can make it up to you officer,” he babbled, his hazel gaze following the long fingers that tugged at the backpack’s zippers. His heart leapt to his throat as he spun himself over, wrists still locked in the small of his back. Ryder was dragged closer in his surprise, unwilling to release the handcuffs, until they were flush together, chest to chest on the hood.

Alban smiled, his gaze meeting Ryder’s scowl.

“Anything you want.”

Ryder stepped back and in one efficient move spun him over, pressing his forehead into the hood with militaristic professionalism. When he let go, a few of Alban’s locks came loose from the up-do, trailing across his face. “ _Don’t_ do that again,” Ryder ordered, the warning clear. Alban was sufficiently cowed, and satisfied himself with twisting his wrists in the handcuffs.

The constable yanked open the largest zipper, rifling through the contents of his bag with blunt, professional curiosity. Then he paused, glancing down at the man pinned in his grasp. “How much money is in that bag?” he asked bluntly.

“Is it illegal to have money?” Alban short back defensively.

“You don’t look like the kind to be carrying around ten thousand credit stacks,” Ryder responded sharply.

Alban feigned offence. “That’s discrimination, officer. I should report you to your Sergeant.”

“Luckily for you, you’re going to get the opportunity,” Ryder retorted, slinging the backpack over his own shoulder and pulling Alban to his feet. One hand alighted on his shoulder, the other firm on his handcuffs as the constable marched him onto the sidewalk.

Passersby paused to watch their procession, and Alban ducked his head, letting his hair hide his face. _So much for lying low_ , he thought to himself.


	3. Information

_P_ ROCESSING took half an hour. Alban sat silently in the lobby of the Neath Port station as Ryder leaned over the reception desk, typing onto the device that lay there. The report took a while to write. Alban wondered how good the man’s memory was.

The cuffs had been chafing for the better part of an hour now, and Alban was keen to get them off. He’d stopped trying to convince the officer to let him off with a fine, resigned himself to his fate.

Alban scuffed the edge of his boot on the tile, and watched another officer wrestle another offender through the lobby, their bellows rising to ring in his ears.

Ryder straightened at his post near the desk, sliding the device back across the desk towards the clerk with a murmur, and advanced slowly on Alban. “Stand up,” he instructed, and Alban rose cautiously.

“Do I get to leave now?”

Ryder’s eyebrow quirked. “No, you’re going into lock up for the night. You can post bail tomorrow after we run those bills for forgeries.”

They passed through a set of heavy doors with small grill windows, the only conversation the sound of their boots on the tile. Ryder advanced towards a desk, rapping knuckles on its linoleum surface. A portly clerk appeared from the backroom, leaning on the bench with a smug smile.

“What’ve you got for me, Ciri?”

“I need a full write up and system reference,” he rattled off as the woman nodded. “I want prints, saliva, and a BMI set. Let’s get him on record.”

The woman smirked. “Well, I can skip processing those, because he has a CRD.”

Ryder’s gaze traced from his boots to his hair as Alban’s lips thinned. “A CRD? What’s a CRD?”

“You’re young,” the woman said, waving his ignorance off. “It stands for Convict Registration Device. They phased them out here and in the Citadel about twelve years ago; decided they were more discriminatory than probative. Which means you’re from off-planet, huh?”

Alban didn’t reply, but then again he didn’t need to. The woman came around the side of the desk, peeling his coat back from his shoulder and sliding it down his arm enough that Ryder could see the CRD bracelet latched securely around his bicep. She plucked a reader from her belt and swiped it across the black band, surveying the readout as she returned to her post.

“Yeah, from the Trion Cluster, that explains that,” she said, more to herself than anything. Her fingers flicked across the screen. “Awenasa City? That’s a tough neighbourhood, kid - how’d you get over to Earth?”

“What, my file doesn’t tell you?” Alban muttered spitefully, trying the shrug the jacket back over his shoulder. Ruder took pity on him, helping him back into the coat. Alban didn’t meet his gaze.

“What’s his record look like?” Ryder asked.

“Extensive,” she responded, and clicked the small reader into its dock. “Let me run the data and I’ll send it to your omnitool.”

Ryder cast her a tight but grateful smile as he took Alban’s arm gently and walked him through the adjoining set of doors. These led to a corridor punctuated with reinforced cell doors. “Welcome to the watchhouse. Let’s get those cuffs off.”

The constable waved his wrist over the keypad screen, and the door slid open with a muted hiss. Alban shrugged inside, surveying the room with distaste. It was small but not exactly cramped. A bench ran the length of the back wall, padded with a thin mattress and an even thinner pillow. The redhead held still as his handcuffs dropped open into Ryder’s palm.

“I’ll see you in twelve hours,” Ryder promised as Alban slumped against the bench.

“It’s not going to take that long,” Alban retorted with a tight smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.


	4. Reputation

_C_ IRI hitched his boots up onto the plastic chair, kicking back into another as he flipped over his wrist to view the holographic module that gleamed there.

>  _data packet transfer from ac-939 (nwilliams) < _ _  
_ _ > accept transfer? < _

Ciri took a swig from his fresh mug of straight coffee (it still tasted stale), and tapped the small screen with his unburdened pinky. Reams of data streamed across the screen - much too fast for his eyes to comprehend - before resetting to the top of the packet. He returned his mug to its coaster, hunching over his omnitool to read.

>  _file enclosed: alban siggrson < _  
_ > male identifier < _  
_ > human, non-native < _ _  
_ >  _twenty-six years of age_ <

“Alban, huh?” Ciri muttered, scrolling past to his origins. “Like Naoimh said, Awenasa City. Trion Cluster.”

With his free hand, Ciri unearthed his mobile from his back pocket, opening a new tab on his browser. His thumb punched in some digits, activating the search function.

The Trion Cluster was a grouping of three planets in the Aquarius Constellation that rotated around a dwarf star, some 12 parsecs from Earth. Betario was the second founded planet, and the second least inhabitable but most impoverished of the three. It was a static planet, which meant it didn’t rotate on its axis; the only habitable climate existed on a strip that ran the equator of the planet known as the terminator line. Awenasa City was one of several large trade ports in the Ninovan Crater.

Ciri continued to scroll through the data packet, opening the medical directory.

>  _n_ _orvak fingerprint identifier: 5820472103857392-AZD_ <  
> _pollex: 54-57-32-63_ <  
> _secundus: 67-23-24-57_ <  
> _medius: 23-98-87-40_ <  
> _annularis: 41-40-93-25_ <  
> _minimus: 37-11-24-46_ <  
> _a-negative blood type_ <  
> _last blood sample received: 2135/05/12_ <  
> _psychological evaluation: non-lethal aggressor_ <  
> _symptoms: reckless, manipulative, tendency to avoid confrontation_ <

Ciri snorted; that was hardly new information. He stretch his legs, flicking through until he reached the records directory.

>  _19 registered offences_ <  
>  _2122/04/28: theft_ <  
>  _2122/11/13: theft, resisting arrest_ <  
>  _2123/01/24: theft, resisting arrest_ <  
>  _2124/05/06: possession_ <  
> _2126/06/16: disorderly conduct, resisting arrest_ <  
> _2126/08/23: disorderly conduct, possession_ <  
> _2126/09/03: possession, assault_ <  
> _2128/08/12: trespassing_ <  
> _2131/02/28: prostitution, possession_ <  
> _2131/03/31: prostitution, resisting arrest_ <  
> _2131/05/01: theft, possession_ <  
> _2131/05/14: possession_ <  
> _2131/05/28: disorderly conduct_ <  
> _2131/05/29: disorderly conduct_ <  
> _2131/06/04: disorderly conduct_ <  
> _2135/01/31: fraud_ <  
> _2135/10/26: possession_ <  
> _2137/04/18: disorderly conduct_ <

“Fucking hell,” Ciri muttered, staring at his omnitool. They were all low-level offences, and it seemed as though he’d had some jail time around late 2126.

He’d travelled too; his early records placed him in Awenasa, but he’d been registered for theft on Alpharia. He was registered by the CDEM as a trespasser through the Pildea Station, when he’d stowed away on a ship; he was reported to have spent 18 months in the penitentiary, before being released on short-term residency. After a year of various offences, he’d been remanded again to the station penitentiary for 26 months.

After that his records went quiet, until he was flagged for fraud trying to circumvent Earth’s customs without valid identification. He’d served six months in a detention centre before being approved for residency, and he’d appeared on the radar for a few minor offences before winding up here.

Ciri scrubbed a hand across his forehead, finishing his black coffee in a few short gulps. The man had a history; not as bloody or dramatic as some of the gang members Ciri had rounded up, but certainly more colourful than he was used to.

Beat cops didn’t usually stumble across off-worlders, and when they did, it usually wasn’t as far as the Aquarius Constellation. With a whole galaxy out there to settle down in, why come to Earth? But Ciri supposed he’d had his reasons, enough to convince him to travel 40 light years across the galaxy.

“Ryder!” a voice barked, and Ciri snapped his feet off the chair as his sergeant crossed the room.

“Yes, Sergeant Driscoll,” he responded briskly, rising to his feet out of respect.

“You processed the redhead?” she inquired, and Ciri nodded in affirmation. “Go pick him up; he’s posted bail.”

Ciri blinked. “What? Already? It’s been two hours.”

“Did I fucking stutter? Someone posted for him. Go collect him.”

He apologised, and nodded sharply, ducking past her as he flicked his wrist over, obscuring the omnitool from view. He slowed to a loping jog when he reached the cells, wiping the device over the keyscreen with a frown.

Alban squinted into the light, the fluorescent white illuminating his pale skin. He had moved to the floor, his back propped against the sidewall, but he raised a quizzical brow when he spotted Ciri.

“Forget something?” he asked, a grin tugging at his lips.

“You posted bail,” Ciri responded, and the grin disappeared swiftly.

He look resigned as he rose to his feet. “Told you it wouldn’t take long.”

“You look less than thrilled.”

Alban didn’t respond, and they didn’t say anything further as Ciri escorted him, their bootfalls echoing on the tile.

“We’ll return your bag to you after we finish running the credits for forgeries.”

Alban shrugged, and Ciri thought it odd that the man wasn’t interested in such a sizeable lump of money. _Unless, of course,_ he reasoned, _it wasn’t really his._ They continued in silence to reception.

A blonde woman with an immaculate suit and polished black shoes stood in the foyer, hands in her pockets as her sharp blue eyes swept the room. She looked too clinical for such a space.

Her gaze alighted on Alban, a spark of recognition lighting in its depths, but Ciri wouldn’t have called it warm. The redhead’s smiled broadly as he approached her, spreading his arms wide in a mockery of celebration. But Ciri could see the tension that tightened in his shoulders, and the agitation that settled in his eyes.

“Pain-in-Miyas,” he jeered warmly, “what are you doing here?”

“You’re late,” she responded, her tone layered with a slavic accent that Ciri couldn’t quite place. Alban’s smile stayed hitched on his face, but the agitation settled into fear.

“Are the dogs here too?”

“Car. Now.”

Alban glanced back at Ciri as they neared the doors, flashing him a pressed smile. “Better luck next time, Constable Ryder.”


	5. Pivot

_I_ YE leant across the back of the church pew, letting his plaits slide down over his shoulders as he tilted his head back. The ceiling undulated above him, the impassive, strained faces of saintly men not meeting his wandering gaze. His boots padded restlessly on the marble floor, his heels a heavy bass.

The church was almost empty; an Agnostic and a Jew sat in the wooden pews a few rows ahead of him, and the latter was drumming a beat in the air above his knees, ambience buzzing from his headphones through the silent church. Pup was perched further down his own pew, their knee hitched up to their chest as they dragged the point of their blade across the grain.

He straightened when the great wooden door groaned open, his sharp gaze singling out the bright ginger hair that flashed in the sunlight, darkening to brunette in the shade of the foyer. His gaze met Iye briefly, before sliding away effortlessly. Iye couldn’t pretend that didn’t hurt.

He pushed to his feet, stepping leisurely into the aisle as the blonde escorted his man down the spine of the church. Pup hovered behind him, his constant shadow. The redhead slowed as he approached, as if wary of Iye’s reprimand.

Miyas, the blonde, bowed her head in civility before turning on her heel to give them the illusion of privacy. Even the drummer had paused in his solo to focus on their conversation.

Iye let the silence hang, watched Alban increasingly squirm beneath his gaze, his eyes sliding to inspect every feature of the church, as if this were his first time in its depths. He finally ran out of things to look at, and met the space just below Iye’s face.

“Look at me,” Iye said, but it wasn’t a command. _Not for him_ , a voice sighed deep inside him. _Never for him_. Alban’s hazel gaze flickered up, only briefly. “Why won’t you look at me?”

“Why aren’t you angry?” Alban murmured sharply.

“Why would I be angry?” Iye asked, the words layered with a sharp edge, and Alban flinched as if Iye had cut him.

Alban’s gaze cut to their audience, and a scowled crossed his features at the sight of the grinning drummer. “Do we have to do this here?” he muttered between bared teeth.

“Yes,” Iye said bluntly, and Alban’s gaze met his finally, locking onto his own dark orbs. “Why would I be angry?”

“Because I left.”

“Are you not allowed to leave?”

“Am I?”

Iye felt that like a knife to the gut. “You’re not a prisoner here, Alban.” He looked dubious, and _that_ spiked Iye’s anger. “Do you feel like a prisoner?”

Alban angled his jaw upwards, sticking his chin up in a fleeting show of defiance. His words were sneered in Iye’s ears, sickly and toxic. “I don’t exactly feel as though my actions aren’t being overborn.”

Iye reached up, but Alban didn’t flinch, though the taller man had thought he would. He stroked the length of his jaw with one crooked finger until he found the initials - _his_ initials - printed there, and didn’t miss the faint tremble that danced at his touch.

“You’re feeling overborn, are you?”

“Right now?” Alban cut in harshly, aiming for insincerity. He was trying to mince Iye’s words again, for playing his own against him.

“Any time.”

“Am I _not_ supposed to feel overborn at any particular time?”

The taller, lankier of the two men sprawled across the pews gave an excessively bored sigh. “Are you two going to make up, or do we have to stand around while you debate whether you’re going to fuck?”

It was like a bolt of lightning sliced through the tension they had built together. Iye felt charged, like a hot coil was wreathing in his gut. Alban looked like someone had just dumped a bucket of ice over him, and he was the first to recover from the assault.

“I’m sorry,” he snapped at the man who grinned like a sneering wolf behind them, “What the fuck was that?”

Iye heard Tesh’s boots hit the floor, felt him leering closer with all the self-important swagger only a young and brilliant man could convince himself of earning. The dark-haired man didn’t move past Iye, affording him that respect at least, but he fixed Alban with a pitious gaze.

“What were you doing out there?” Tesh asked pointedly, the words piercing like daggers through Alban’s coarse exterior. Iye felt his flinches more than saw them. “Got yourself _arrested_ , for what? What was so important that you had to go galavanting about Neath?”

Alban stuttered on his response, his clear mind jammed with rage. “Was that such a fucking crime? I was in lock-up for an _hour_ ; hardly anything to worry about. I’m already on the record, there wasn’t anything I could get done for. And since when was _my_ ‘galavanting’ _your_ concern?”

He was on the defence, determined to brush this off as a simple excursion that snagged on a hitch. Nothing to concern themselves with, nothing to worry about. Iye repressed a sigh. He didn’t think they were aware that he had stashed several thousand credits in that backpack before handing it over so willingly to enforcement.

Iye broke in softly, before Tesh summed his witty retort. “I know about the money.”

Alban went rigid, his reply only a beat later than genuine innocence. “What money?”

“Don’t pretend I’m fucking stupid, Alban,” Iye snapped, more indignant at Alban’s poor attempt at omission than the own implication on his intelligence. “If I wasn’t on the fucking radar I would have dragged you out of that cell myself.”

This felt bad; he didn’t usually swear this much, let alone in front his best men. He needed to reign this in, quickly.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing, walking around with that much? Did you think they wouldn’t ask questions? That it wouldn’t land you in deep shit?”

Alban was shrinking with each word, not externally; if anything, he grew more rigid, more stark against the dark shadows of the marble floor. But internally, some part of him was withdrawing from Iye’s presence, cowering in the recesses of his being as if afraid Iye would drag it back out kicking and screaming.

“Iye,” Tesh murmured quietly behind him, but Iye barely heard it.

“Do you think I enjoy following you around all day?” he snapped, and Alban’s gaze narrowed marginally at the confirmation that he had been followed. “That I enjoy having to keep tabs on you to make sure you can’t fuck any of this up? Right now? Right when we’re in the middle of everything?”

Alban’s hand snapped out, the only movement in the room other than his own heaving chest, and wrapped around the sculpted newel of the nearest pew. The movement was at once natural and stiff. The hair around his collar began to rise on end.

“You know how much I need this to work - how much _we_ need this to work,” Iye continued, the words and frustration pouring now, weeks of pressure spilling over into the air around him.

Some distant part of Iye’s mind noted that he could see Alban’s bared ears now, his knuckles on the newel sharp white and clinging.

“Why are you determined to fuck everything up in its final stage? Why can’t you just be happy to see something through to its end? Why do you have to assume everything will go wrong?”

Tesh’s hand wrapped around his wrist, both hesitant and cloyingly desperate, begging. It was cold and harsh against his heated skin, and his rage snapped like a candle wick, distinguished instantly.

Alban’s feet came crashing back to the tiles, and he staggered sharply, finding his footing badly. He winced as his ankle caught most of his weight, his arm snapping taunt, the elasticity of his elbow socket groaning under the stress as he was jerked back upright, an afterthought.

The redhead was trembling only very slightly, resigned and yet no less horrified by the invasion, a few fiery strands slicing apart his contracted pupils.

Iye surged forward, mildly relieved when Alban didn’t flinch back but folded into him, a hand rising to wipe the stray locks from his face as the other wound around his waist and pulled him into Iye’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into his nest of hair, his body tingling at their shared heat, the reminder of Alban’s presence, his proximity. Iye’s nerves sang, frayed with guilt. “Are you alright? Are you okay?”

Alban nodded wordlessly, eyes fixed somewhere down on Iye’s boots, blinking slowly as his mental form floated down to join his physical, as if it were still hanging there a foot in the air.

Suddenly, all other presences were unwelcome, all at once too distant for consolation and too crowding. “Get out,” Iye barked, and Tesh didn’t need a second warning.

The other followed suit wordlessly, his gaze not even passing over Iye, but the man felt as though he saw deeper into him nonetheless. They stalked the length of the church in silence, both swiftly departing until it was only he and Alban and Pup.

Iye stiffened, breaking away from the man curled into his chest to meet their gaze. It was silent, observant, unassuming as always. They were an eager shadow, barely felt and easily obscured. But familiar, and inseparably present.

“We’re going upstairs,” he murmured to them, watching their black gaze for a pique of interest, of faint intrigue. They didn’t shift, the only acknowledgement of his command.

Iye took Alban’s pale hand in his own, smoothing the freckles over with his thumb as he guided the man towards to the side of the dias, pushing past old wooden doors and up into the spirals of their kingdom.


	6. Mark

_T_ HE Arch was tainted with the constant, lingering presence of alcohol and sweat. Music throbbed in the air, reverberating like a noxious violent cloud in Ciri's skull. He raised the bottle to his lips again and nodded to the beat that thrummed in parallel with his own pulse.

The nightclub wasn't the most upper range hole to spend good money and an empty night, but Ciri liked it's crowd. He liked the price of beer and the inconsistency of the bands that played here. He liked the fact that no one remembered his face even when he'd been going here for nearly a year now.

Most of the cops frequented The David Protheroe tavern; it was a twenty-first century piece of Neath history that had only gone downhill since it's restoration. The boys usually referred to it as “Dave’s”, but Ciri had never really liked the atmosphere of the tavern. Or any tavern really - too many people, too many stationary lights.

Here, he could blend with the crowd, unseen and unconcerned. He liked it's anonymity, the escape it offered.

He nodded to the thrummed screech of the bass guitar, throwing back another mouthful. Someone brushed past his elbow, spilling a few drops over an irate bystander. Ciri ignored them, straining through the temporary darkness in time to see a wayward beam strobe over a shock of orange hair.

It wasn't an unusual sight in the Arch; most people's fashion tastes would be described as abnormal here, and colourful hair was the tamest of their transgressions. But it was the shade that drew Ciri's attention, all natural and gleaming like copper gold. It was the length with which it swayed to the man's waist, half of it rolled into a makeshift bun atop his crown.

Ciri paused, and thought better of it, turning back towards the overcrowded stage pit, letting the high staccato of the drums wash over his heated and sweat slicked skin.

But it nagged at the back of his consciousness, a tether that kept pulling his gaze back to the corner of the room, where the floor was clearer and the crowd more sparse.

Ciri sighed and wove slowly through the mass of writhing bodies. It was like a wave that crashed against his torso and limbs and threatened to bruise, but Ciri kept onwards in no particular hurry.

There were lounges back here, old leather things that were wrinkled with age, but no one was sitting. They were crowded around two figures at the centre of a loose circle, their murmurs lost to the heavy music as Ciri approached.

The redhead was in the fray; Alban, his beleaguered mind supplied. There was sweat slicked across his bared arms, and his hair was dark where the lights did not reach it, dousing his face in similar shadows.

The other man was shorter but more built, his neck a pulsating trunk of muscle as he screamed into the slimmer man's face, his words lost the the music. Alban must have said something in kind, because his shoulders began to hitch with lopsided laughter. Then the brick shithouse was shoving him back into his row of men, the redhead's laughter cutting off abruptly as he staggered backwards.

Ciri didn't wait any longer, pushing through the circle to seize Alban's upper arm. The other man blinked at him, and Ciri's non-committal apology was lost in the roar of music and singing as he wrenched Alban around, steering them out of the nightclub.

Their feet clattered on the pavement, the sharp autumn air stinging their cheeks into a flush. Ciri's senses were already sharpening with the cold awakening, and he swiped the stale perspiration from his brow, turning to face Alban.

“What were you think- the fuck happened to you?” Ciri demanded, his voice a shout that was too loud even in his own ears. He winced.

Alban barely registered his bellow, hunched over with one hand pressed into the brick wall, his nails cutting into the mortar. He was bathed in a thin sheen of sweat, and his left eye was swollen shut.

“Your eye,” Ciri gasped as he pivoted to lean back against the wall, tilting his head against the cold brick.

“It's fine,” he mumbled, reaching up to touch the bright purple lump and flinching sharply. Ciri fought the urge to slap his hand away. “S’nothing.”

Ciri noticed two things as they both stood swaying in the street: the first was that Alban was visibly intoxicated, his eye glazed and red; the second was that he was wearing next to nothing, just a singlet and jeans, his bare skin prickling in the cold.

“You're freezing,” Ciri snapped with a sharp frown, tugging off his own coat.

Alban resisted the jacket, but Ciri was far more coordinated, and eventually he gave in, hugging the dark coat close around his narrow shoulders. He mumbled something, probably gratitude.

Ciri rubbed his own arms, thankfully protected by his sweater. It was threadbare and moth-bitten holes poked through the periwinkle blue, but it was his. Alban looked like he was going to faint, his eyes slick and tears growing swiftly. Empathy wrapped harsh fingers around Ciri’s heart and tugged.

“Alban, are you al-?”

The man collapsed, his shaking knees giving out on him as he went sliding down the wall with a grating sound, his hair catching in the prickly mortar. His shoulders heaved with the force of his sobs, and he hastily raised a hand to swipe the tears from his face, yelping as he brushed his bruised eye.

Resistance left Ciri’s body, and he rolled forwards, guiding Alban shakily to his feet. “You can’t stay out here,” he mumbled as he steadied the swaying man. “Christ, Alban.”

Ciri wasn’t sober enough to deal with this - neither was Alban, for that matter - but at least he was sobering by the minute. He hooked the redhead’s arm over his shoulders, wrapping a supportive hand around his waist as they made their way shakily down Commercial street. They ducked under a beaming neon sign that offered ‘All-Night Repairs’, taking one step at a time until Ciri managed to get him to the familiar turnstalls of the station.

There, the man paused, considering for the first time that he had no idea where he was taking the man. He pressed Alban down onto the nearest retaining wall, crouching down to snare his attention.

“Where do you live, Alban?” he asked, cursing himself for not remembering what he had written down on the station’s admittance form. There was a chance it had been a false address anyway. “I need to know you’re address if I’m going to get you back there.”

Alban was shaking his head vehemently, or as vehemently as a very unsteady man could. Ciri sighed irritably, but Alban found his voice. “Can’t… go back,” he slurred, and Ciri frowned, steadying him.

“Alban, I need to know-”

“I can’t go back there!” he yelped, and finally met Ciri’s gaze. His purple bruise shone under the fluorescent light, and everything slid into place for the officer.

“Oh.”

Alban fumbled weakly for his borrowed coat, clinging to it like a lifeline as he threw his gaze away. “Please don’t make me go back.”

“Okay,” Ciri whispered, and repeated himself again, louder, as a plan began to form. “Okay.”

He rose to his feet, hovering uncertainly for a moment in the foyer of the station, his numbed brain taking a moment to find its rhythm again. _Tickets_ , it supplied with a sigh, and Ciri leapt into action, sliding his omnitool across the nearest turnstall.

Alban was sniffling when he returned, thirty credits lighter. But he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, and Ciri sensed a touch of embarrassment flushing his cheeks as they descended to the platform.

The train was old, it's carriage walls tagged with graffiti too numerous to make an impression. Ciri sat opposite the redhead, who turned his gaze pointedly out of the window. The ride was short, and Skewen station was not a respectable place to be at this hour of the morning - not that Ciri couldn’t handle himself, but he doubted Alban’s coordination.

His house was on the fourth of an eight storey compartment complex, tucked away at the end of the hallway behind an elevator that stubbornly refused to ascend higher than the third floor. Ciri held the door to the fire escape open as Alban ducked through, glancing about the hallway with curiosity. The Turians that lived at the end of the row were shouting again, their reedy thrums echoing through the threadbare walls.

Ciri shrugged past the stunned redhead, pressing the face of his omnitool into the lock bay embedded in his door, pushing past as the three locks retracted with the barest hitch. He left the door open behind him, and sat down on the small couch - a luxury he’d clung to when he’d first furnished his compartment - to yank his boots off.

Alban slithered through the doorway, hesitant to touch anything lest he disturb the obvious peace that Ciri was accustomed to. At the end of the hallway, the Turians pounded loudly on a wall, and more bellowing filtered through to them. Alban pressed the door shut behind himself.

“Thank you for the coat,” Alban said, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“There’s a coat hook there,” Ciri gestured, and the redhead shrugged out of it, hanging it hastily as he stepped into the room. His hands wrung together, but Alban didn’t seem to notice he was doing it.

“I’m sorry to put you out like this,” he murmured, running a hand hastily through his mess of hair. Ciri blinked at him, pausing with the laces wound around his fingers. “I’ll be gone by morning, I promise, it’ll be like I wasn’t even-”

“Alban,” Ciri interrupted, and the man’s wide, hesitant gaze met his. “You can stay as long as you need to.”

He stared for a long moment then, before his lips hitched up into a tentative smile. “Am I growing on you, Constable Ryder?” he teased, a note of reluctance in his eye, as if he was afraid Ciri would snatch the offer back.

Ciri snorted, rising in his bare feet to spin the dial on the heater. That sounded a lot more like the smug ingrate he’d arrested not four days ago. He straightened, gesturing to the small room with a sweep of his arm. “Well, uh, this is my home. The couch probably isn’t long enough for you,” Ciri considered, running fingers up through his curls, “but the alternative is sharing the bed. It’s probably warmer to-”

“I’ll take the couch,” Alban cut across, and Ciri heard a note of discomfort in his tone. The redhead hurried into the room, and his eye shone a visceral maroon under the cheap fluorescent lights.

“I’ll get some blankets.”


	7. Assurance

_C_ IRI woke curled into an uncomfortable ball with the vague impression that Alban was awake. Maybe it was the groaning across the room that spoke of terrible alcohol-fuelled regrets, but he gestured blindly towards the tiny bathroom and slurred a recommendation.

He reawoke some half hour later with the smell of buttered and burning eggs swimming in his nostrils. He groaned his way into a half-sit, searching blearily for their source to find Alban half-dressed in front of the stove, his torso bared to the thick sunlight that clawed through the greasy window. Ciri scrubbed a hand across the stubble prickling on his jaw, and rubbed an eye.

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” Ciri asked, and it came out more pointed than he’d intended. The man was bathed in a halo of faint ochre light, his red hair twisted fully up into a loose bun and pinned to the back of his skull as he worked. He looked like some ethereal being constructed of haphazard light and grace.

“No clean clothes,” he grunted in response, and turned to lift the skillet. Ciri was sharply reminded of his injury, some unspoken mark of disobedience. The swelling had gone down only slightly, the purple leeching into a deeper blue, promising soon to be brown.

Alban nodded to the partially set table, and Ciri stretched leisurely, taking his own chair. Alban flipped two eggs onto the other man’s plate, and then onto his own. He tossed the skillet into the empty sink - the kitchen was embarrassingly small with the pair on them in it - and hooked his ankle around a stool, jerking it close enough to sit upon.

“What’s all this?” Ciri asked around a mouthful of eggs.

Alban stabbed at the yellow eye in front of him, shrugging nonchalantly. The light rolled off his shoulders. “I wanted to thank you, properly.”

“You know you don’t owe me anything, right?” Ciri cut in briskly, and Alban didn’t respond. Ciri set to work on the other egg. “You know I have questions.”

“Yes.”

“And I know you don’t want to talk about them right now.”

Alban met his gaze, something unreachable turning over in their depths, some enigma that Ciri couldn’t grasp the thread of in that hazel stare. After a pause, he asked, “If I answered some questions, will you not ask about the bruise?”

Ciri nodded easily, not eager to push him. He chewed on his mouthful of breakfast.

“Then ask away, constable,” Alban responded with a teasing smile.

He chuckled under his breath, setting his fork aside as he mulled over his queries. “Did you sleep well?”

Alban arched thin brow at him. “That’s your most pressing question?” When Ciri only smiled, he sighed. “My neck hurts. What else?”

“What were you doing in the Arch?”

“I like the bands.”

“This doesn’t work if you lie.”

“Who said I was lying?”

“What was the band called?” Ciri asked pointedly, though he couldn’t name it himself.

Alban’s gaze flashed, but the irritation was brief and fleeting. He changed his answer. “I wanted to get drunk. Seemed like a good place to achieve that.”

“Do you remember much of last night?”

Alban shrugged. “Most of it.”

Ciri surveyed him, the loose strands of his hair, the darker flecks in his eyes as he chased the yolk around the plate in front of him. “What’s the tattoo stand for?”

Alban went rigid, his fork screeching to a halt on the hard plastic. “The tattoo?” he asked, playing dumb. He didn’t meet Ciri’s gaze.

“On your chin,” Ciri clarified, pressing a finger into his own stubble, into the soft spot behind and beneath his jaw bone. “The initials, ‘i.e.’.”

“Someone important,” Alban mumbled, all previous teasing lost to the tense moment.

“Who?”

“Does it matter?”

“You don’t want to answer this one?”

“Not really.”

Ciri nodded accommodatingly, leaning back in his chair. “Must be someone important,” he agreed. “I don’t think I’d be willing to get someone’s initials somewhere so intimate.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“I’m being honest,” Ciri pleaded. “And I get it: it’s important to him, so it’s important to you.”

“Who said it was a him?”

Ciri gave his indignant retort a smug half-smile. Alban scowled. “It’s written on your face, Siggrson.”

Alban grunted in faint disapproval. “No one calls me that anymore. Never did, really.”

“What _do_ they call you?”

“Sigyn, mostly. Or my name.”

“Sigyn?”

“Mmhmm,” Alban agreed, not elaborating further.

“And this important someone,” Ciri prodded tactically. “You live with him?”

“Usually, yes,” Alban responded, not pleased with where this was going.

“Is he the one who hit you?”

“You weren’t supposed to ask about that.” Alban realised his mistake a moment too late, his thoughtfulness a step behind his anger. “You’re manipulative, you know that?”

“I’m honest,” Ciri contradicted, a little too bluntly. “You have a black eye, Alban, and you spent the night getting wasted over someone whose initials are tattooed on your chin. I’d say that whatever is going on here, it’s fairly serious. Am I wrong?”

“Why does it matter to you?”

“Well, I took you into my home, for one.”

“And two?” Alban sneered, his expression cowed.

“I’d like to know if I need to worry about any exes kicking down my front door. I’d like a little forewarning, you know.”

Alban huffed half of a laugh. “Not an ex, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

“Not an ex?” Ciri repeated, his brow pulling into a scowl. “You’re not breaking up with that bastard after he hit you?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is.”

Alban pinned him with his gaze, green and warning. “No, it’s really not.”

“And why not?”

“Because I’m going to have to go back to him eventually,” Alban muttered.

“Or,” Ciri interjected, wondering offhandedly why he was getting so involved in another man’s - another _stranger’s_ \- relationship, “you could find yourself a new place, away from him. There’s plenty of cheap compartments in Neath, look around you.”

“There’s nowhere in Neath that’s away from him.”

“Does he own Neath, does he?” Ciri said with distinct sarcasm.

“Yes, okay?” Alban shouted, giving Ciri pause. His gaze was furious and wet. “Yes, he owns Neath. He’s one of the biggest gangs around here, and there’s _nowhere_ I can go to get away from him now, alright? He owns me. All of me. So let it die.”

The silence hung between them for a long time, thick and strangling.

Ciri swallowed, clearing his throat softly. “So leave the planet.”

Alban’s gaze rose to meet his then, sparked with something dangerous and fleeting. Then the ember died just as quickly as it had rose. “With what money?”

“You have over ten thousand credits,” Ciri retorted, but Alban was already shaking his head.

“It’s his money, and money can be traced. He’ll find me, and when he does, I won’t be worrying about just a black eye.” He tugged the pin out of his hair, and Ciri watched it gleam as it tumbled down his back. He shook his fingers through it hastily, more for need of movement than anything else. “I’ve tried before, trust me. And then I forget how much I want - how much I _need_ to get out. He has that way with people.”

Ciri nodded thoughtfully, but no brilliant solution came rising to the surface of his mind.

Alban popped the pin into the corner of his mouth, bundling up his swathes of hair with practised precision. “If I was ever going to succeed, I’d need a way to get off planet without having to pay for it. And the only way you do that is on an organ transporter three days cold, or in the witness protection-”

Ciri’s eyes flickered up at the same moment the pin tumbled from Alban’s lips, clattering somewhere on the floor, instantly forgotten.

“Witness protection program,” he finished for the redhead, who nodded numbly.

There was hope in his gaze then, muffled and suppressed by a greater fear, a fear that this would all come crashing down like it had every time before. It was this that made him hesitate; Ciri saw it, clear as day, writhing in the depths of his eyes like some frantic beast that his rationale was determined to silence. He heard the words before they even left Alban’s lips.

“I don’t have anything to do with-”

“Iye Enyeto,” Alban volunteered hastily, and Ciri frowned.

“What?”

“The initials,” he elaborated. “That’s what they stand for, that’s the important someone. It’s Iye Enyeto.”

“Iye…” Ciri blinked once, twice, shook himself mentally. “ _You’re_ involved with Iye Enyeto?”

Alban nodded slowly.

“Iye Enyeto, the drug lord. Iye Enyeto, the black market gangster.”

Alban confirmed each of these titles with a punctual nod.

“Iye Enyeto, the most untouchable man in Neath?” Ciri pressed incredulously, and Alban’s lips quirked in the beginnings of a smug smile.

“I wouldn’t say he’s that untouchable,” he alluded, and Ciri leapt to his feet, his veins singing. The redhead looked concerned, caught midway between fight and flight as the constable’s knuckles bared white against the warm skin of his hands. The shook on the tabletop. “Are you alr-?”

“Can you get us access to Enyeto?” Ciri snapped before he could finish.

“I expect so, yes…”

“And Inteus, you can give us names, identifiers?”

“Who’s us? How much exactly are you after?”

Ciri blinked, his mind suddenly elsewhere. “I need to make a call.”

Alban lurched after him, seizing his arm as he turned towards the living room for some space. “Hey! Listen to me,” he said clearly, snaring Ciri’s gaze with his concern. “I need a promise, an assurance. You understand how much danger this puts me in, right? You understand how important it is that I never get caught for this? That they never know it was me?”

Ciri nodded impatiently, his fingers dropping to his omni-tool as soon as Alban’s hands lifted off him. “I need to make a call.”


	8. Manoeuvre

_ H _ IS fingers slid over Alban’s forehead, featherlight and yet grounded enough to rouse the redhead from his light slumber. It was bright around them, sunlight pooling on the sheets like gleaming water, blinding and yet soft altogether. Alban crawled deeper into Iye’s heated embrace, pressing his nose into the steady thrumming of Iye’s chest as the larger man’s hands smoothed over the upraised peaks of Alban’s shoulder blades. 

His lips found Alban’s forehead next, soft and wide as they brushed gently across it, descending over his upraised temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his jaw, the curve of his chin, and lower, until Alban was tipping his head back, drawing Iye down onto his neck. His touch became firmer, definite kisses and purposeful nips that brought the flush back into his warm skin. 

The redhead’s hands went to his chest, and then lower, running treacherously delicate fingertips over his stomach as the man smiled into the curve of his collarbone. Alban’s neck was fully extended now, arching back to give Iye full access to his being. 

With a rueful groan, the redhead drew back. “We need to plan.”

“Can it wait?” Iye breathed, fascinated as his skin rose in hopeful gooseflesh. His expression was less conducive. 

“It has to,” he retorted sharply, pushing himself into a reluctant sit. Iye admired the way the blankets pooled around his bare hips, offering the barest glimpse of his stomach. His olive-toned fingers traced languidly across exposed ribs as Alban struggled to piece his thoughts together. “Must you?”

“Mmhmm,” Iye murmured in assent, smiling up at the pale man as he propped himself up on one elbow. 

Alban sighed and rolled his eyes, yanking the sheets up to his chest as he pushed upright slightly, pivoting to strandle Iye as the other leaned back into his pillow, grinning. 

“Will you pay attention now?” Alban asked with a small smile, his eyes twinkling. Iye nodded slowly, mesmerised by the way the sunlight sat on his shoulders and illuminated the ring of hair around his crown. 

“Anything for you,” Iye promised and Alban chucked, straightening slightly on his perch atop Iye’s waist. 

“Anything for me, hmm?” 

Iye nodded solemnly, his lips splitting in a languid grin, the morning light dancing on his skin. Alban pressed fingers to those lips, mesmerised as he hummed. 

“We’ll need to get close to them,” Alban mused, watching his dark eyes light up with reverence as the redhead arched his back, shuddering. “Earn their trust.” 

“And you can make them trust you?” Iye pressed. 

“Absolutely,” Alban assured him with a slow smile. “I’m charming.” 

Iye laughed, the sound thrumming through his stomach and translating into the sensitive skin on Alban’s thighs. His warm palms traced the latter’s hips. “What do we need to do?” 

Alban chewed his lip, until Iye reached up to press soft and calloused fingers to them. The redhead kissed them lightly. “You’re not going to like it,” Alban warned, and continued at Iye’s raised brow. “I need to get arrested.” 

Iye’s smooth face twisted in displeasure, but he didn’t contradict Alban, not yet. 

“Only temporarily,” he assured him, leaning down until his elbows rested across Iye’s collarbone. His fingers laced around the back of the other’s neck. “Just to pique their interest, stir the waters. Then I’m going to convince them to take me in; I’ll offer them inside information.” 

“Information, hmm?” 

“I’ll have to give them something?” 

“They don’t deserve anything,” Iye mumbled into his throat, his teeth picking at Alban’s faintest freckles. “They don’t deserve even a sliver of you.” 

Alban’s eyelids fluttered closed. “Earn their trust, with information. It’s the least I can give to get them off your back.” 

“This sounds like its going to have them climbing all over my back,” Iye contradicted with a small smile. His eyes were black flint, glinting and dangerous, mischievous. 

A grin curled the redhead’s lips. “No, they’re going to be climbing all over  _ my _ back. They’re going to be sniffing me out for any morsel of information I can divulge, and if we play our cards right, they’ll keep you completely at arms length.” 

“How so?” 

“I’m going to double cross you.” 

“I’m wounded.” 

Alban pressed a chaste kiss to the man’s nose. “Play along. I’m going to convince them I’m threatened by you, that I’m desperate to be rid of you.” 

Iye moaned low in his throat, injured. “Be rid of me?” 

“Of you,” Alban reaffirmed, nodding into the dip of his clavicle. “And your ego. And your habit of leaving your shoes strewn across the room. And your gross-” 

“Okay!” Iye yelped, wrapping firm arms around his waist and rolling the pair of them across the bed. “Okay, okay. I get it - what happens next?” 

Alban laughed, his hair splayed about him as he revelled in the weight of Iye settled atop him, framed by sunlight. 

“I have to convince them to extort you.” 

A kiss to his temple. “This sounds complex.” 

“I’ll convince them to pretend they’re a rival gang; pose as gang members and extort you for money, or information, and step up their demands as time goes on. Then I can keep in contact with you.” Alban trailed a finger along Iye’s cheekbone. “You’ll be able to keep an eye on me.” 

“So the cops will pretend to be a gang? And you’ll pretend to be their victim.” 

“And I’ll work them from the inside out. I’ll work out how close they are, steer them aside. I’ll give you the room you need to work. You just need to play along, act panicked, make rash decisions. Respond badly to my capture, of course.” 

“Hmm, that won’t be hard,” Iye retorted with a displeased, thin smile. 

“You don’t like my plan.” 

“It seems overly complicated.” 

“It needs to be. I need back up avenues, room to move if it goes sour. I need to wrap them all up so tight they don’t know which ropes to cut.” 

“I trust you,” he pledged reverently. “Even if I don’t like the plan.” 

“You’re going to like it even less.” 

Iye stilled, breaking the distance between them. Alban rued the absence of his heat. “Why?” 

Alban found he was chewing his lip again. “I need you to hit me.” 

“Alban.” 

“On purpose, specifically in my eye,” Alban continued before Iye could stop him. “I need a bruise, something intimate, something no one will questi-”

Iye’s lips were against his in the next moment, stifling his words. Alban’s shoulders tensed, before he melted into the feeling, blinking when the larger man pulled back. 

“I told you I would never lay a hand against you.” 

“I need a bruise.” 

“Does it have to be a bruise?” 

“It’s that or a broken arm.” 

Iye made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, glancing aside. “And you absolutely need a bruise.” 

“I need to convince them that you’re violent, that you’re reckless. That you’re thoughtless and impatient and short-tempered and short-sighted.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Yes, but they need to believe that you leap into action without planning, that you’re able to be cornered. And more importantly, they need to sympathise with me.” 

“And a bruise will do that?” 

“A black eye will.” 

Iye huffed, and pressed a kiss to Alban’s left eyelid, and then his right. “You know this will hurt, don’t you?” 

“I’ve had worse.” 

“That’s not a good reason.” 

Alban pushed him away so that he could meet Iye’s gaze, solemn and imploring. “We need this to work. We can’t get off the ground without this plan. I need to be believable, you need to be believable. We need to manoeuvre ourselves into a favourable position.” 

Iye nodded, and paused - before a small smile tweaked his lips. “Speaking of favourable positions…”

Alban chuckled, pulling him closer. “Then that’s a yes?” 

“Yes,” Iye relented, “but the bruise comes later. For now, I want to focus my morning with you. I love you, you know.” 

“I know.” 


End file.
